Dean and the Evil Glitter
by scriggly
Summary: Because when has the universe not had it in for Dean? WARNING: Explicit sibling incest.


Right before Dean stabs the siren (naturally, because when has the universe not had it in for Dean?) the siren turns her head in Sam's direction. She garbles a few obscure words and seems to be gathering an impressive ball of siren saliva in her cheek, and for some crazy reason prepares to spit on Sam.

Which, even though it cannot infect Sam as long as he keeps his mouth closed, is disgusting as hell. So Dean heroically stabs her and leaps like a ninja (and that was one fantastic ninja leap, if Dean says so himself) knocking Sam to the floor, between Sam and the bitch's revolting, cursed spit, right before she twitches and dies on the spot.

Does Sam thank his brilliantly heroic big brother? Does he ooh and aah about how freaking awesome the hunting life (and Dean) is, and maybe even promise never to think of Evil Things Starting With The Word University again?

Of course not. He glares up at Dean, pushes Dean off him then hauls Dean to his feet and looms over him, his hand a steely grip around Dean's bicep. "Damn it, _dammit,_ Dean _-_ "

Dean opens his mouth to go on a tirade about ungrateful baby brothers who maul their heroic big brothers (before said heroic big brother has even caught his breath, and immediately after saving Samantha's long locks from slimy cursed spit, no less – _and_ getting slapped with said spit for his troubles) when he notices the trail of… rainbow glitter floating around him.

After having floated out of his mouth.

Dean blinks. "What the…"

Sam's gaze is comically wide on Dean's lips, and yes, there's no mistaking the freaking _rainbow_ colored glitter that has just burst out of Dean's mouth to swirl in the air and stick on Sam's face and in his hair. "Dean, _fuck,_ you stupid jerk _._ She cursed you."

"Obviously…" Crap. More glitter. _Glitter._ Seriously? Dean can just picture the universe doubled in on itself laughing. "How come it hasn't worn out? She's dead. I killed her," Dean adds helpfully, in case Sam hasn't noticed how fucking unfair this is.

Sam has _not_ noticed. Sam is furious, covered in glitter and glaring and yelling in Dean's face, as if Dean has specifically ordered this curse to annoy Sam. Seriously. _Unfair._ "What do you feel? Right now?"

Sam wants to know how Dean's feeling? Not that Dean doesn't appreciate it, but they have a siren to salt and burn and a curse to break – and for fuck's sake, if Sam doesn't stop shaking Dean like Dean's a rag doll-

"Dean, _what_ are you feeling right now? Do you want to… I don't know, jump her?"

"What? No!"

"Dean, there's glitter coming out of your mouth after a siren spat at you. She did something to you. What exactly are you feeling right now?"

Dean glares. "Other than pissed? And exhausted and starving? Nothing. I feel normal."

"Okay, one more time: There's fucking _glitter_ coming out of your mouth. Obviously you've been cursed with _something_ and-"

"You don't think spewing fucking rainbow glitter every time you open your mouth is curse enough? It's humiliating!"

"Maybe she cursed you to answer some other siren's call?"

"So let's salt and burn the bitch and get out of here and you can geek out and fix me!"

They heft the hideous corpse into the filthy bathtub in the shack's only bathroom, and Dean is hopeful.

"Maybe it'll wear off once we're done?"

It doesn't.

"Glitter. _Rainbow_ glitter. What the hell?" Dean grumbles as they slink out of the shack. Another flurry of glitter floats brightly in the faint dawn light, but only a little sticks to Sam this time, the rest spreading in the air toward the abandoned fairground next to the siren's lair. "What kind of a self-respecting siren-"

"Shut up," Sam hisses furiously, shoving a big, unbelievably rude paw into Dean's back pocket, snatching Baby's keys and dragging Dean towards the car.

"Wh-"

"Shut _up_ ," Sam hisses again, shoving Dean into the car and hurrying to the driver's side. "She turned you into a fucking siren."

Dean peers through the shotgun window over at the fairground and spots a couple of derelicts who apparently live there. They're swathed in Dean's glitter… and turning in a sluggish, dumbstruck daze towards the Impala.

Fuck.

* * *

Dean will give Sam this: Sam may be an ungrateful baby brother who has the gall to manhandle his heroic big brother and snatch his keys and shove him into the shotgun seat, but Sam is also brilliant, shooting out of there faster than Dean had ever imagined Samantha could drive, before the poor victims got to Dean and… well, literally fucked him to death, probably, thanks to Dean's fucking siren call.

(A fucking _rainbow_ glitter siren call, of all things, and the universe can seriously stop humiliating Dean any day now – in fact Dean is prepared to show his gratitude if that ever happens by… by being a good samaritan and putting his scissors to good use and giving Samantha a long overdue haircut. And he knows exactly how likely his odds are of _that_ happening.)

"So I'm a siren now. Great. And I lure victims with… glitter? Are you kidding me? I don't _need_ to lure victims. Aren't sirens supposed to read your fucking mind? She didn't see my track record with chicks?"

"What did you feel like? Did you want to… kill them?"

"No."

"Eat them?"

"No."

"You're not acting like a siren. They were definitely acting like they were under a siren call. They were moving like zombies though. So it impairs motor coordination. That's not how siren victims act. Maybe it's off because she was dying? Dean, _stop_ snickering glitter," Sam snaps, swatting at the glitter, Concerned Bitch Face firmly in place.

"I can't control where it goes – bad glitter!" Dean says, more glitter bursting out of his mouth. (Sam glares, but hey, if there's something for Dean in this mess he's _taking_ it, and watching Sam make Epic Bitch Face at a swarm of Dean's rainbow glitter spit is, well, _epic._ )

"Very funny, Dean. Can you maybe take this a little more seriously?"

But Dean is too exhausted for that after over 48 hours awake and getting cursed with glitter, of all things, and he's wiping back honest-to-god tears, man, he's laughing so hard. "Rainbow glitter is such a good look on you, Samantha."

"It's _your_ fucking rainbow glitter, Dean."

It's a sobering thought. Jeez. Can't Sam let Dean forget about this mess for five minutes? "How come you're not affected, by the way?"

"What?"

"You're covered in my glitter." Ugh. It sounds equally hilarious and disgusting. "Why haven't you gone all zombie-in-love with me like those poor bastards?"

Sam spits out a flurry of glitter that shot into his mouth and shakes his head viciously at another swarm of glitter like a lunatic (not that anyone who insists on that maze on top of his head isn't already a lunatic – that poor glitter might never find its way out of there). "I don't know. Because of my abilities? Fuck, Dean, at least let the glitter that's covering my face vanish before you open your mouth again – I can't see, you jerk!"

Dean is breathless with laughter. "Dude, it only sticks for like, two seconds before it vanishes. You are _such_ a girl."

Classic Bitch Face, original model. Sam continues his vigorous attempts to get the glitter out of his face, shaking his head like a great mad dog and dragging his hand through his mop in frustration so it sticks out in insane, glittery tufts. Oh man. This is going to kill Dean.

"What a way to go, though," Dean gasps weakly, just to watch Sam fight a fresh gust of glitter.

Sam ignores him for a few more miles of deserted road before swerving and driving a ways into the woods then killing the engine.

"Oh my god," Dean says, still weak with laughter. "The curse _did_ affect you after all, only backwards. You're gonna kill me and dump my body here because I covered you in glitter. Didn't think you had it in you, Sammy."

"We can't go back now. The gamblers and the drunks will be on their way back. The truckers will be on their way out. I want the motel parking lot to be as empty as possible. I'm not risking you siren-calling the desk clerk or… a trucker. Or _more_ than one trucker-"

"Bite your tongue."

Ah, Condescending Bitch Face. "Remember what happened to those tramps at the fairground, Dean?"

Apparently Sam has forgotten that Dean is a a grown-ass hunter who can keep his mouth shut for seven fucking seconds across the parking lot. Dean sputters rainbow glitter, he's that indignant.

"Dean, you're _sputtering_ glitter. What happens if you cough? Or sneeze? I'm not risking you… ensnaring some random person."

"You'd rather I ensnare a non-random person?"

Sam huffs like the epitome of put-upon patience and ignores Dean to start rummaging under the seat.

"Sam," Dean starts severely, swiping some glitter out of his face (hopefully Sam will watch and learn how to _swipe_ like a man, instead of flailing his big paws in the air) and leveling a big-brother glare at Sam this time – a glare that will make Sam _know_ Dean is not going to be treated like… like an idiot, ungrateful baby brother, dammit.

Sam rolls his eyes, something suspiciously like weary amusement in his gaze, rests a big paw on Dean's knee, and leans down to rummage under the shotgun seat.

"It's the fucking glitter," Dean says darkly to Sam's tangled mop, ruffling the mess to make sure the glitter gets absolutely everywhere. "My big-brother glare is all ruined, Sammy."

"Stop breathing glitter into my hair, Dean," Sam says, before straightening and plonking two bags of salted peanuts in Dean's lap. "Eat. We can go back to the motel in half an hour, I think."

Dean is _starving_ and rips the bag open with his teeth. "I can't believe I couldn't even get a competent monster who doesn't fucking half-ass her curses, man."

"You'd rather be dead than spit glitter?" Sam is hunched forward, thumbing through Dad's journal, his hair a ridiculous curtain hiding his face and almost grazing the pages.

"I'd rather be eating real, hot food than stale peanuts is what I'd rather be doing."

Seriously. Dean saves lives and kills bad things and tolerates Sam's bee nest and asks for nothing except Sam (preferably not entertaining that Evil Word Starting With University again) and hot food and a cute chick once in a while. Is that too much to ask?

Sam has conveniently forgotten about Dean and is muttering to himself about wards that keep in supernatural sounds.

"Glitter is not a sound. What exactly did they teach you at Stanford?"

"Your curse came from a siren. The core of the curse is tied to sound."

"Huh. What do you know – you passed the test."

No answer.

"Because I was testing you," Dean clarifies. He reaches over and flicks Sam's ridiculous bangs.

Nothing. Not even a glare.

"What if I need to piss? Am I allowed out of the car to piss?"

"You don't need to piss, Dean."

"What if I need to?"

"Keep thinking about it and you'll need to piss. And then you'll have to hold it in. Now shut up and eat your peanuts."

"Tyrant," Dean grumbles. He wouldn't put it past the universe to turn his piss glittery as well.

* * *

Early morning swathes the motel in silence, but Sam – the little _bitch_ – insists on clamping a big paw over Dean's mouth for the duration of the four steps it takes them to get inside their room. As soon as Sam shuts the door, Dean slaps his hand away.

"Hey-"

"That was a precaution. What if you-"

"Yeah, sneezed or coughed. Grown-ass hunter here – who taught you everything about stealth, remember?"

Dean follows Sam around the room while Sam lays salt lines and draws sigils and stoops and crouches and generally makes it impossible for Dean to get one decent glare in.

The complicated sigils are done perfectly, of course, because Sam is a genius even if his hair proves otherwise. "Good work, Sammy."

He doesn't get the withering glare he's hoping for. Sam is too busy flinging himself onto his bed, yawning and stretching and making himself look three times his actual ridiculous height. _Show off._ There's impressively tall (like _Dean)_ and then there's just excessively goofy-palm-tree tall. A tiny strip of taut belly peeks out as Sam's shirts ride up, proving Dean's point: Sam's excessive height puts his belly right where Dean can tickle him mercilessly, thanks to Dean's impressive (but not _excessive_ ) height.

Sam doesn't even flinch as Dean tackles him. Dean's fingers scramble harder up and down Sam's unfeeling robotic belly. "Dude. You didn't even _flinch._ "

Sam eyes him calmly, arms behind his head, not even trying to protect his belly. "I'm not ticklish. Which you already know, Dean. Because every time you tickle me it doesn't work. Now get off me."

Dean sits back cross-legged at the foot of Sam's bed, just in case Sam decides to unleash his giant shoving arms. "I can't believe you never even flinch anymore. I used to tickle you until you screamed for mercy when you were shorter. Before you turned into a… a… a giant palm tree with no feelings."

"You mean when I got taller?"

"No, when you turned into a giant palm tree."

"Stop spewing glitter at me and go to bed, Dean."

Apparently the glitter only bothers Sam when he's driving, because he makes no attempt to swat or flail at the specks sticking to his face and hair and swarming around him. Instead he stretches languidly again and nearly knocks Dean off the bed. A burst of glitter dives merrily into his mouth as he yawns and sinks into his pillow, rubbing his girly hair all over it like a cat. A giant, palm-tree cat that shakes glitter out of its hair like a dog.

A giant, palm-tree cat-dog, Dean amends brilliantly.

He pats Sam's knee in encouragement. "Better get started on that beauty sleep, Sam. We have to go back tomorrow – tonight, I mean – to search her dump for clues. Man, I'm knackered," Dean says, stretching his poor muscles and talking himself into climbing off Sam's bed and into his own. "And you're _twice_ as knackered."

Sam pries open one eye. "Twice? Why twice?"

"Because I've got twice your stamina, Samantha," Dean explains patiently, reaching over to ruffle Sammy's girly hair for emphasis.

"Not because you caught a nap in the car?"

Dean has to stop sputtering fucking glitter every time Sam sounds so amused.

Sam props himself on an elbow and looks down at Dean. "After you finished _my_ peanuts? Remember?"

Oh no. Dean will not dignify that with an answer. He straddles his outrageously ungrateful, somehow still _amused_ hulk of a little brother, presses his forearm across Sam's neck and enunciates carefully, making sure the maximum amount of glitter goes right into Sam's bee nest, "Good. Night. Sammy."

"Very mature, Dean," Sam mutters, still infuriatingly amused, his lashes brushing Dean's clavicle.

Dean gets off smugly and climbs into his bed. Ah. Sleep. Maybe this curse will wear off by tomorrow morning. Maybe the universe has had enough of humiliating Dean at every turn.

 _Right._

Well, there's the sight of Sam's hilarious, glitter covered bitch face and glittery mop and swatting hands to look forward to. A snicker escapes Dean as he burrows his head into the pillow, picturing Sam glued to his laptop researching in a cloud of rainbow glitter.

"Night, Dean," Sam's voice floats softly over to Dean's bed, and Dean grunts, suddenly too exhausted to even speak, watches a faint cloud of glitter swirl between the two beds and swim over in Sam's direction, and promptly falls asleep.

* * *

There's a whirl of glitter surrounding Dean when he wakes up. He stares at it for a beat, resigned, before swiping it away.

"Dude, you actually snore glitter."

Sam is sitting on the other bed, fingers interlaced and hands dangling between his spread legs, eyes intent on Dean.

A freshly showered Sam in clean clothes, Dean notes blearily. "How can you be so wide awake so soon? It's disgusting."

Sam rolls his eyes, smiling, and gets up to start clattering away at the laptop. The already open laptop.

"You've been researching? Before coffee? Oh my god. You really are my cyborg, non-ticklish palm tree baby brother."

Apparently Sam must finish typing whatever he just started typing before bothering to reply to Dean's witty remark, although he deigns to send an absent-minded smile in Dean's direction.

Fuck that. Dean is not going to compete with Sam's laptop. He spends some time pulling together his various limbs and making sure they all know how to work together before getting out of bed. It's late in the afternoon and Dean is seriously starving. "Sam. Coffee. Food. By the time I've showered. Or… or… or else"

More clatter.

Damn. Only the direst of dire threats will force Sam's nerdy ass out of the room. Dean rubs his eyes and shuffles to the bathroom with his glitter, shucking his smelly clothes. How is he supposed to come up with the direst of dire threats before coffee?

Ah.

"I have scissors, Samantha, and I won't be afraid to use them," Dean yells. "Coffee and food and your precious mop is safe for another d-"

"Shut up so I can get out of the room, you idiot," Sam calls out.

Unlike Sam's bee nest, this is actually reasonable. Dean waits a beat before turning on the shower, but there's no more clatter.

Victory.

* * *

Clean and fresh as a lily under the warm spray, Dean considers jerking off. His cock is happy about the idea, thickening and twitching in his palm, but Dean is undecided: He'd rather not find out if his come is glittery as well.

Still, the warm water feels so good, and there's the promise of food (and a cure as well – Sammy's on it, after all). Dean's debating whether he should just go for it with his eyes shut, when the room door bangs open.

His hunter senses prickle – Sam never barges into the room like that – and he's turned the water off and wrapped a towel around his waist by the time the bathroom door slams open.

Whatever made this burly, heavily bearded and mustached stranger break into the room in the first place (now is not the time to devote one brain cell to that), Dean can pinpoint the single reason he just broke open the bathroom door. The guy is swathed in glitter and is standing in a dazed stupor, eyes roving up and down Dean's wet body.

He's big, but so is Dean. Hell, if Dean can take on a werewolf with nothing more than a silver knife, then a regular human (provided this is one), no matter how big, is not even an issue.

Unarmed and wet and clad only in a towel, however, with a human being supernaturally compelled to…

 _Fuck._

Dean watches the man moving toward him, uncoordinated and zombie-like, and recalls Dad's warning that siren victims will _kill_ if they have to in order to answer the siren call. And Dean's not even a real siren: He has no desire to eat or kill this panting, hapless guy, which means Dean is just a potential victim now, pure and simple.

The razor above the sink is Dean's best bet. Dean keeps his eyes on the guy, who is devouring Dean with his eyes while trying and failing (too uncoordinated) to unbutton his jeans.

Dean gags, and immediately realizes how monumentally stupid _that_ was when a fresh gust of glitter darts at the guy and he looks even more dazed than before. He snarls and seems to be trying to tear his jeans open, before stepping in a puddle from Dean's shower and falling flat on his face.

Dean is out of the tub in a flash, careful not to slip on the drenched floor, one hand curled in the towel around his waist. He has just snatched the razor when a hand wraps around his ankle and tugs.

Dean barely gets an arm between his face and the tiles before the floor comes rushing up, the razor flying out of his hand. He manages to crawl a few steps away and wraps a hand blindly around the door jamb, but the grip around his ankle is unnaturally rigid and he can't get any farther. Before Dean can kick back with his free leg the man snarls and spins Dean onto his back, banging Dean's head so hard against the tiles his vision blurs.

Nausea forces a gasp out of Dean's tightly shut mouth, and the fresh wave of glitter leaves the man looking hideously unhinged.

The one thing Dean's got going for him now is the guy's uncoordinated, jerky movements, so he tries to make the guy's job harder and wriggles sideways, keeping his towel secure with one hand and trying to find the door jamb with his other hand-

-and pain explodes in Dean's jaw as the guy punches him and straddles Dean's legs, heavy and strong as a werewolf, no doubt the siren call's effect. The lust on his face is no longer human.

"Hey," Sam yells. Dean turns his head to look at his baby brother, and the dark, deadly fury on Sam's face is the last thing he sees before the man grips Dean's hair and yanks Dean's face back towards him hard enough to bang Dean's head against the door jamb, and Dean blacks out.

* * *

The glitter-blurry sight of Sam crouched over him and the warmth seeping into his bare back from Sam's big paws are so wonderful Dean doesn't even make any jokes about Sam's glittery, girly bangs.

"Ow," Dean says pointedly, when Sam pokes the bruise Dean can feel throbbing in his jaw, before gathering Dean up and into a crushing hug. Dean's brains feel like scrambled eggs but Sam's warmth is fantastic compared to the soggy towel around Dean's waist, and Dean relaxes gratefully into the hug, his nose squished inside Sam's sweaty mop. "You got the best timing, Sammy."

Sam smells too damn good for someone who has just single-handedly gotten rid of a supernaturally cursed sex-crazed maniac, which – how on earth did Sam single-handedly get rid of a supernaturally cursed sex-crazed maniac? Also, Dean must be feeling better already if he can think such long words.

Sam won't let him go, however, so Dean asks Sam's hair. "How did you get rid of him?"

"I should've _killed_ him," Sam snarls against Dean's bare shoulder.

Hang on. Dean wriggles back and narrows his eyes at Sam. "You didn't kill him? Way to avenge your brother's honor, Samantha. You…" Dean is suddenly hopeful. "Did you find a way to break the curse?"

Sam shakes his head, helping Dean up to his feet, warm paws patting Dean over for injuries and bruises.

"Where's the guy then?"

"Tied up in the bathroom," Sam says darkly, his frame buzzing with tension as he gathers the various bags of food strewn around the room, while Dean drops his towel on the floor and rummages around in his duffel for semi-clean clothes. "I laid fresh wards outside the bathroom door. We gotta get out of here now, Dean."

"But how did you overpower him?"

"I… When I lunged at him, the coffee spilled all over him and… I don't know, the heat seemed to make him snap out of it somewhat. Enough for me to kick his ass, at least."

Dean stops pulling on his jeans. "Coffee? Coffee saved my ass?"

Sam nods without even rolling his eyes at this, cramming his armful of food into his duffel viciously before shoving his laptop into its bag.

"Dude, you just discovered coffee might be up there with salt and silver and iron. I bet Bobby himself doesn't know this! Isn't this like… better than sex, or something? For nerds like you, I mean," Dean clarifies.

"Come on." Sam yanks a couple of shirts from Dean's duffel and dumps them into Dean's lap then zips up the duffel. Something savage flashes in his eyes as his gaze catches on the bruise on Dean's jaw, before going to check on the wards outside the bathroom.

"You don't find this hilarious? Dude, you're too wound up for someone who got one hell of a workout-"

"Don't even," Sam snarls, whirling around, face dark and miserable with fury. He exhales, rubs a hand over his face. "It's the heat that made him snap out of it. Heat is common in pagan protection spells. And there's nothing remotely funny about any of this."

It's not the first time Sam has saved him from near death or dragged him out from under a monster. Dean is confused. "Sammy?"

"I should've _killed_ him," Sam grits out.

"Yes, so you keep telling me," Dean says gently. "Look. You saved my ass. Literally. I'm fine. I mean I'd like to resurrect that siren bitch just to stab her all over again, don't get me wrong, but I'm fine."

Sam's nostrils flare. "Come on. We gotta get out before he comes to. I don't know if he's still under your siren call or not."

Sam turns around to peer through the curtains, brightly swathed in glitter against the darkening blue of the sky outside, his back and shoulders still stiff with tension.

Okay. Sam needs to stop looking so miserably angry. Time to nudge his big brain into Geek Researcher territory. "Who is he though? Regular burglar?"

"With our luck? I don't think so."

Yeah, neither does Dean. "Demon then."

"Not a demon. As far as I can tell there's nothing supernatural about him except the curse."

"But how did the curse get to him? Nobody barged into the room all the time I was talking to you last night. Or this morning. Nobody's breaking the door _now._ Why him?"

"I think the curse breached the wards when I left you alone. My guess is the curse doesn't know I'm not affected. You know, it just needs a human to latch on to. The more the merrier – I mean it spread over to those tramps last night. But as long as the glitter can hit someone, it's fine."

"So if it doesn't find a human, it'll… go looking? What the hell? Fucking hunting glitter? Are you kidding me?"

"Look at me. I'm covered in it. The curse is happy and the wards are unbroken."

"What if it doesn't find any humans? What if I'm somewhere with only animals around? Or… or..." Dean gulps at the picture of a werewolf or a vampire chasing him – not to kill him, but to…

"That's not gonna happen," Sam says furiously. "I'm not leaving you alone again until we break the curse."

Evil glitter that goes hunting when it doesn't find a prey. And Dean thought his situation was fucked up before. Dean looks at Sam, moving around the room to make sure they won't leave anything behind, and is fiercely glad he took that curse instead of Sam.

Which Sam apparently reads on his face, because he stops in his tracks as though slapped. "You are such a jerk, Dean."

"I didn't even say anything!"

"I thought you finally learned the hard way not to jump in front of curses meant for _me._ "

"It's not like I knew this was gonna happen, Sam. And you're welcome, by the way."

Sam is silent and fuming.

"Great," Dean mutters, rolling his eyes and stepping towards the door. "Let's go."

"Dean-"

"Now? You want to share and care _now?_ "

"I'm the only one your ridiculous glitter hasn't affected so far. This curse probably wouldn't have worked on me in the first place-"

"Yeah, I'm sure that's why she was aiming at you – because she knew it wouldn't affect you. Sirens read minds, remember? She must have known her curse would work in spite of your abilities and-"

The unmistakable wail of sirens sounds, closer and closer. _Fuck._

"Maybe he untied himself?"

"Not possible," Sam says, fisting a hand in Dean's shirt and dragging him to the window. "We have to sneak out through the window. We can't risk anyone seeing us walk out of this room."

"I know that. Stop treating me like an imbecile."

"Then shut _up_ so I can open the window _,_ " Sam snaps.

Dean mimes zipping his mouth shut, glaring at Sam so hard his eyes burn. Sam slides open the window quietly and they clamber out and stand side by side, backs plastered to the wall. The sirens are piercingly loud but are out at the front of the motel and there's no one here. Baby gleams under the streetlights, beautiful and sleek and safe, just a few steps away.

Then footsteps ring just around the corner, along with the arrogant, nasal voices that spell cops everywhere. Dean holds Sam's horrified gaze. Just their fucking luck – whatever crime these cops are here for, they're apparently competent enough to search the blind spots first.

This is it. Dean would happily pick death under a werewolf's claws over this.

Which, incidentally, Sam does _not_ need to witness.

If Dean has to go like this, Sam needs to get away now. Before the idiot gets himself killed trying to fight off a crowd of siren-called people ( _cops,_ even better) bent on literally fucking Dean's brains out.

So Dean tugs his arm free of Sam's grip and whispers, "S-"

"Shut _up_ ," Sam hisses, fury and betrayal in his gaze as it zooms in on the glitter Dean can feel starting to burst out of his mouth. The footsteps and voices are about to turn the corner – when Sam swoops down and covers Dean's mouth with his.

Okay. _Cooperate._ Sam is a genius, and Dean owes him some cooperation. Dean is dizzy – he can't breathe, so obviously he's dizzy. He wraps his arms blindly around Sam's broad shoulders to steady himself. Sam's big hands slide up his neck to cradle the sides of his face and pull him closer into the kiss – ah, to close Dean's mouth. Sam is brilliant, and fuck, why can't Dean close his mouth so this is less disgusting for Sam?

He dimly registers the voices wafting closer. Sam starts swallowing around his tongue, apparently trying to make sure all the glitter Dean is panting into Sam's mouth doesn't get out, and Dean seriously needs to close his fucking mouth. Maybe he has a medical problem; maybe this is why Sam is always snapping at him to shut the fuck up-

"…an abandoned fairground. Those tramps were probably on drugs."

"…rule out a hate crime, the way those two seem comfortable going at it. Hey. _Hey_. You two!"

Sam's fingers nudge Dean's jaw until Dean's mouth is closed, before Sam releases Dean's lips and turns to their audience, wrapping an arm around Dean's shoulders and tucking Dean (still dizzy and with jello knees to boot) against his side.

Bewildered, Dean presses his lips tightly shut in Sam's shoulder and tries to swallow back the hot snarl of weirdly familiar Sam-shaped ache trying to fucking claw its way out through his mouth.

"Sorry, sir," Sam replies easily, trademark disarming charm threaded into his voice, rasping and panting and playing the part perfectly. Dean keeps his hand fisted in Sam's shoulder blades. No wonder he feels lightheaded – he hasn't had anything to eat or drink since those stale peanuts a thousand hours ago.

"…reported hearing a brawl in the room next to theirs. It's probably safer for you to… er, not be out here."

"Absolutely." Sam keeps up the brilliant act, clearing his throat and tamping down the panting. "We, uh. Sorry, officer, we just got carried away. We're about to check in."

There are mutters about young love and a few snickers and then the cops go on to the back.

Before Dean can push himself off, Sam disentangles them, his eyes flashing as he looms over Dean, the moonlight catching in his ridiculous tousled hair. He fists a hand in Dean's sleeve as if he doesn't trust Dean to stay close and they slink to the car.

* * *

As soon as the motel's in the rearview mirror, Sam explodes. "If you even _think_ about doing anything like that again-"

"Look-"

"Fuck you, Dean," Sam snaps, slicing the air with his hand in a silencing motion. "I can't believe you'd think… You thought I'd just ditch you and run?"

Dean seriously thought that? Yes. Apparently the curse has affected his brain as well. "I… No. I'm sorry. I didn't want you to have to face off any cops-"

"So you decided to get us both killed fast? For fuck's sake, we're in this goddamn mess because you keep trying to put me first. Stop. Trying. To. Put. Me. First."

Dean raises his hands, placating, but Sam doesn't yell anymore. Probably smart enough to realize he can yell until he's blue in the face and he won't change Dean's priorities. That said, Dean's move _was_ impossibly stupid. Dean can't believe he actually thought Sam would just run for his own life. "I wasn't thinking, I guess."

"You're right."

"Yeah, well-"

"No, Dean, you're right – she was aiming at _me._ It would have made more sense for her to aim at you – the knife was in your hand."

"She… knew your research got us there and she wanted revenge?"

"But I'm not affected by the siren call. I probably wouldn't have been affected by the curse either. She had to know that. You said it yourself, Dean: they read minds."

"I don't know… Maybe the curse was supposed to turn you into a real siren? As in a man-eating monster. Not a glitter-spouting amateur with a fucking target on your ass. Maybe she looked at you," Dean adds, glancing at Sam's ridiculous mop (with his ridiculous bangs that are glossy enough to reflect the fucking moonlight, and why is Dean thinking of this – even Sam is on the same page for _once_ and is not talking about it), "and she decided since you already have the siren hair-"

"Maybe I should stop worrying about fixing you since this is all such a big joke. We'll have to quit hunting and become civilians. I'll go back to school and rent a place and you can hide there, you and your glitter and your stupid jokes, and you'll have to live like a monk because there won't be any more chicks ever again-"

"I don't need to be fixed to land chicks, jackass."

"Yeah? How will you feed them your trite pickup lines?"

"You think I need lines to land chicks? Have you seen me?"

"You can have sex without opening your mouth? You know, so no glitter comes out?"

Heat jolts through Dean and his brain must be conspiring against him-

-because he fails to call up any female softness against his open mouth, his brain sprinting eagerly instead to another memory Dean _definitely_ does not want to revisit, safety and warmth and his mouth panting against-

"Quit laughing at my misery and drive, jackass." Dean hauls Sam's duffel across the backseat and does _not_ apologize when it rams Sam's right shoulder. He picks a congealed chicken taquito for himself and throws a congealed egg sandwich at his annoying _ass_ of a little brother. Who catches it in the air. _Show off._

* * *

Five congealed taquitos and one futile call to Bobby later, Dean notices that this is not the way back to the siren's lair.

Sam looks at him like Dean's got two heads. "We can't go. The asshole I tied up must have given our description to the cops. If he remembers. I don't know how this non-siren call thing works."

"Maybe it works like possession. So he was under. I mean I don't see any cops chasing us, so I'm guessing we're safe, and we need to search that bitch's place for clues, Sam."

Sam turns right and into the fourth sleepy town they've come across, and Dean figures it out.

"You found a way to fix me. You did, didn't you? You've got that geekboy epiphany face."

"Can you shut up until we find a motel? There's no way to explain a car full of glitter."

When all the glitter vanishes, Sam finds a newsstand and leans out of the window to ask for directions to a motel.

 _Damn_ but hope feels so sweet. Dean waits impatiently until Sam rolls his window back up and they're in a relatively empty street. "So? How are you gonna fix me?"

"Can we just find a motel first?"

"I get it – we can't have people noticing all the glitter, yeah. But you do have a theory, right?"

"I have a theory," Sam says with a grin.

Dean grins back.

"And now shut up until we find that motel and check in."

Okay. Dean can wait a few more minutes. Pride pools warmly in his chest – trust Sam to find a way to fix him this fast. If Dean never sees a speck of glitter for the rest of his life, it'll be too soon.

* * *

A barefooted guy in pyjamas is arguing with the disgruntled teen behind the front desk about cable. Dean turns his back on both and leans against the counter next to Sam, who's drumming his fingers on the countertop impatiently.

Dean can relate. If Sam says he found a cure, then Sam has found a cure, and Dean just wants to get checked in and get on that cure.

Dean is so hopeful he can taste it. He's even pretty sure he can hold in any sneezes or coughs or other crap the universe might just decide to throw his way the next few minutes.

Too bad he won't be able to pick up the pretty redhead in the heavenly tight jeans and delightfully flimsy blouse who's been checking him out for the past five minutes. That'll show Sam – glitter or no glitter, Dean doesn't even need to open his mouth to pull, baby.

He allows himself another glance at her perky breasts – damn, he feels like celebrating, and he can almost swear he can make out her nipples. She leans back further against her car so her blouse stretches even tighter and yes, those are definitely dark pink-

"Are you serious?"

Dean's head whips up at the ferocity in Sam's voice. Sam's glare at the redhead is terrifyingly real, and Dean feels sorry for the poor girl.

They can't be overheard thanks to the loud conversation next to them, but Sam leans closer. "You can't wait until tomorrow to eye flirt? Remember the life-or-death mess we're in?"

Dean raises his eyes to glare at his brother when Sam's savage gaze takes him by surprise. There's too much fury there to pass as Sam's well-known opinion of Dean and his hook-ups.

Maybe Sam's affected by the curse – just not as affected as the rest, due to his powers?

A vision unfolds sudden and vivid in Dean's head: Sam going dazed as soon as Dean's glitter touched him. Sam snarling and advancing on Dean. Sam's barely pent-up fury unleashed on Dean, Sam's long hands slamming Dean against the wall, his other hand frantically undoing his own jeans, exquisite in anger, looming over Dean-

Dean wheezes, stunned, and finds himself kissed to within an inch of his life before any glitter makes it out into the air.

Dean's curse is obviously not limited to siren glitter – Dean has obviously been cursed to fall in love with his own brother, because the world keeps spinning and he can't catch his breath and his legs are about to give out and Sam smells like heaven and Sam's broad shoulders are safety and home and fuck, Dean's awareness has shrunk to Sam's tongue in his mouth-

Cursed, yes, he's been cursed, Dean remembers as Sam's long, perfect fingers keep nudging Dean's jaw, trying to get Dean to close his mouth because Dean has been fucking cursed. This is why Dean thinks it feels so undeniably right, the only thing right in the world.

This is why Dean thinks the Sam-shaped hole in his gut is suddenly so full it's overflowing, no longer hollow, no longer aching for Sam-

Sam is frantically trying to nudge Dean's mouth shut now, both thumbs pressing Dean's jaw up, and Dean marshals the tatters of his common sense together and screws his lips together, bewildered. In his peripheral vision, Dean sees Sam sign the register in a hurry and snatch a key from the desk clerk then drag Dean away toward the block of rooms.

 _I'm so sorry, Sammy._ He thinks it hard at his brother and tries desperately to stop the shivers wracking him, but Sam obviously senses them through the hand he's got wrapped around Dean's forearm. Sam stops immediately and turns around in the narrow corridor between the front desk and the rooms, eyes serious and unreadable and fixed on Dean's eyes, then on Dean's trembling mouth.

Dean must have also been cursed with the inability to keep his mouth shut, but Sam crowds him against the wall next to their room and kisses him again. Dean dimly registers cat calls and snickers as Sam spins him around without breaking the kiss and stumbles them backwards, fumbling the room open and slamming the door shut, before plastering himself against Dean and all but eating at Dean's mouth.

"W-we're… safe," Dean pants into Sam's mouth. "You can stop."

He should uncurl his fingers from Sam's back and the nape of Sam's neck if he wants to sound credible, but Dean needs them to hang on because his knees are too weak to carry him, especially with Sam licking into his mouth and the hot, _huge_ length searing Dean's belly through all their combined layers.

"Yeah, I'll… I'll stop," Sam says around Dean's tongue, then nudges Dean's legs apart with a muscular thigh and swings Dean up against the wall.

Dean wraps his legs hastily around Sam's waist, before Sam spins around, hands cradling Dean's ass, and fucking _carries_ Dean to the bed. Dean is dropped onto the bed and Sam crawls between his legs, looming and huge and predatory, tearing at Dean's jeans and yanking jeans and boxers down to Dean's knees. Dean's freed cock slaps against Sam's mouth, smearing it with precome, before Sam sucks it into his mouth. Dean's back arches off the bed, delirious with pleasure, until he feels a long finger press behind his balls and Sam barely gets in three sucks before Dean is spurting his brains out through his cock inside his brother's mouth.

Dean is kissed feverishly as his jeans and boxers are roughly tugged off, then Sam tears open his own jeans and kicks off jeans and boxers. Dean gets one heavenly glance at Sam's cock, _huge_ and leaking, before Sam grabs Dean's thighs and pulls them together trapping Sam's cock between them, and starts to thrust, hot and slippery and frantic as he devours Dean's mouth.

Dean's brain fogs with pleasure as Sam's cock kneads Dean's balls with every thrust. Sam's thrusts become increasingly frantic, then he's pushing Dean's leg up over his shoulder and sliding his cock between Dean's cheeks, the tip shoved directly onto Dean's hole-

-and Dean can't breathe at the sensation of Sam's cock pulsing forcefully against Dean's balls and perineum before spurting hotly against his hole, Sam's warm spit coating Dean's tongue as Sam pants into his mouth, and Dean is exquisitely trapped under his baby brother, pinned by Sam's tongue in his mouth and Sam's cock to his hole, pulsing and spurting over and over, and Dean's going to be the first person to die of utter _pleasure_ before he's even recovered enough to get it up again.

Sam trembles with aftershocks and even soft, Sam's cock is _big,_ still nestled snugly between Dean's cheeks. Sam's kisses are gentler now, and Dean finds himself scooped into Sam's arms as Sam fusses over him and glides those graceful, long fingers reverently up and down Dean's face, neck, arms, cock, thighs. Hot, savage tenderness roils inside Dean's chest and overwhelms him, and he slings his arms around Sam's shoulders and nudges Sam's mouth with his.

Sam falls on his mouth again, fondling Dean's soft cock with one hand and melting against Dean, slow and lazy and silky, and Dean is dizzy and hard in Sam's palm by the time Sam relinquishes Dean's mouth.

A shaky breath escapes Dean's mouth as his eyes flutter open.

Then his eyes widen. "Sammy."

Sam murmurs something incoherent, too busy mauling Dean's earlobe. And if Sam doesn't stop swirling his thumb in Dean's leaking slit, Dean will forget the very important thing he needs to say. Dean can barely remember his name as it is.

So Dean places his palms on the Sam's shoulders and has to shove at Sam a few times to get his attention.

Sam heaves himself up on one elbow, refusing to stop playing with Dean's cock with his other hand, damn it. His gaze falls to Dean's mouth and his nostrils flare, and Dean's distracted for a few glorious moments by Sam's eyes, dark with lust, his bruised lips and hungry gaze and his big palm rolling Dean's sac and his big thumb in the precome oozing thickly out of Dean's slit-

"Uh," Dean starts shakily around the sharp jolts of pleasure and lust and that peculiar fullness in his heart, no ache, no holes, just something hot twisting his gut in the best way possible. "There's no more… ah..." _Oh god._ Sam's lapping at the corner of Dean's mouth and whatever Dean has to say can wait – if he even remembers it later.

Sam murmurs, "N-no more… glitter. Yeah, I… mmm… noticed."

Dean would normally be invested enough to ask why in _hell_ Sam doesn't sound surprised – but Sam stretches and twists and hangs half off the bed, reaching a long arm towards the closest duffel (and squeezing Dean's cock against his in the process), as if getting out of bed and away from Dean for a few seconds is too much to even consider. He rummages inside the bag, still stretched on top of Dean, then lies back fully on top of Dean, kissing him hungrily as if it's been hours since they last kissed.

Dean's sanity fizzles and flees at the sounds of uncapping and squirting before a long, slick finger wriggles slowly into Dean's hole, and Dean can only pant into Sam's mouth and leak thickly against Sam's belly as Sam adds more fingers inside him.

"Have… a theory," Sam pants against Dean's parted lips, effortlessly manhandling Dean higher on the bed before shoving Dean's legs over his shoulders and lining his cock at Dean's hole.

Dean has no idea what Sam's babbling about, but speaking is a lost cause and he holds on to Sam blindly as his baby brother's cock breaches him.

"The siren… She saw it. How I feel… How I've always felt…"

 _Jesus._ Stars explode in Dean's vision as Sam brushes _that_ spot, gripping Dean by the hips with bruising force and pounding into Dean, devouring Dean's mouth, and oh my god did Dean really hear that correctly?.

"Did you hear me, Dean?" Sam looks crazed, eyes dark and laser-focused on Dean, soft hair slick with sweat as he fucks into Dean feverishly. "I… I know you n… n-never admitted you w-want this. Me… I've always known. She saw my head."

Dean can barely breathe, ears roaring and heart trying to claw its way out.

"Did. You. Hear. Me." Sam's teeth are bared, manic hunger on his face, as he thrusts hard enough Dean's head is pressed up against the headboard. Dean nods frantically right before he loses it, spilling trapped against Sammy's taut belly and clenching around Sam's cock, and Dean honestly thinks he's going to die of pleasure this time-

-until the sensation of Sam pulsing and spilling hotly inside him, against his walls, over and over and over, Dean's walls clenching involuntarily as if to milk Sammy dry, Sam's lost gasps and pants falling against Dean's open mouth. Dean's eyes fall on a string of spit between their tongues, and he is done for.

* * *

Dean opens his eyes to find Sam lying half-over him, watching him intently, predatory and possessive and _gorgeous,_ and Dean can't make his throat work when he realizes Sam apparently has no intention to stop playing with Dean's soft cock.

Dean feels his face heat at the realization that he does _not_ want to shake Sam off – that if he wasn't too wrung out to move, he'd wrap his legs and arms around Sam and keep him right here where he belongs, _forever,_ snug against Dean with his come filling Dean up and his spit cooling on Dean's lips _–_

"If you want me to stop fondling you," Sam says, and Dean's face is burning, "just say it."

Dean makes a heroic effort. "What… Uh, what did you mean… about the siren? Um… earlier?"

Dean finds himself kissed messily until he can't breathe, his cock still in Sam's hand, before Sam pulls back to answer, his gaze hungry on Dean's mouth. "She read our minds, remember? She knew I wouldn't be affected by the siren call if she cursed you. That's why she wanted to curse me."

Dean blinks, confused.

Sam grins at him, as if Dean is… endearing. Dean can't honestly find it in himself to mind. Not with the light drag of Sam's nails on his balls and Sam's twitching cock against his hip.

He still has no idea what Sam's talking about, though. "But she knew she couldn't affect you."

"Wrong. She knew my powers would only protect me from the falling under the siren call. My powers wouldn't have protected me from getting turned into a siren, if the curse had hit me."

"You mean…"

"I can't fall under the siren call. You can. So she wanted you to… well, you saw what the guy at the motel was like."

"Then sirens are dumb. She couldn't figure out I'd never do that to you? I'd rather kill myself."

"Pretty sure she was counting on that."

"What?"

"Dean. Look. I've never. You know. Lied to myself. About this," Sam gestures between them. With the hand not molesting Dean. "You… probably never even let yourself think about it."

How could Dean?

"So she figured out the worst possible way to get back at me."

That's the worst possible way to get back at Sam?

Dean has no idea what Sam sees on his face, but he's suddenly peppered with kisses before Sam crushes him in a desperate embrace. "Idiot," Sam murmurs into his ear, finds Dean's mouth and takes it in a sloppy kiss.

"No, come here," Dean grumbles when Sam takes his delicious lips away too soon…

…only to move silkily down Dean's body until his lips hover above Dean's erect cock. "I thought it would take a ritual. To re-channel the raw sexual power of a siren. But it didn't."

"R-ritual?" Dean manages to ask, stupid with lust. He watches Sam's big hands slide up Dean's thighs, possessive and reverent, watches Sam lap at his cock and pull back, a thick strand of Dean's precome suspended in the air between his slit and Sam's pink tongue.

"Yeah," Sam says, the strand snapping. Dean watches Sam's throat work as Sam swallows the thick, clear fluid, and Dean's cock thickens further as his brain turns to mush. "A ritual of drinking your precome. And your come. And your saliva," Sam adds, and Dean can't breathe at the manic hunger on Sam's face before Sam sucks Dean's cock into his mouth and slides his fingers between Dean's cheeks and through the come still trickling out of Dean's ass, fucking Dean's hole with a long finger, and Dean is lost to pleasure.

* * *

Hilariously, Dean thought he was wrung out _before._ That was before round three, before the exquisite torture of having his soft cock sucked all the way to hardness, before Sam then manhandled Dean onto his hands and knees and ate at Dean's hole like he was starved, then spun Dean around onto his back and fucked him through the mattress _again_ while Dean came his brains out _again_. And then pulled out of Dean to lick Dean's sensitive cock clean, the pain-pleasure almost unbearable, before sticking his tongue inside Dean's mouth again, apparently content to keep his softening cock buried between Dean's cheeks. _This_ is what wrung out feels like, Dean thinks in a blissful haze.

Sam laughs softly. "You really hate my hair, huh?"

"You mean this mop…" Dean trails off, looking at his fingers, mysteriously buried inside Sam's ridiculous bee nest.

Sam is amused. Dean has no idea why.

"Shut up," Dean says. His fingers won't stop carding through the stupid, silken strands. Dean just needs something to hold on to, that's all, if Sammy's going to keep kissing the air out of him like this.

When Sam lets them come up for air, he's smiling. "Maybe I should get it cut-"

"Don't you dare," Dean snarls, fingers tightening in the sensuous silk piled on Sam's head. And Dean thought Sam is a genius? He takes it back. Sam is a _moron_ … under that beautiful head of his.

"I'll keep my hair long then," Sam murmurs, the sneaky bastard, pulling Dean into his arms, Sam's soft cock slipping out and sliding messily against Dean's cock, and Dean combs his fingers through gossamer silk and wants to tell Sam he _is_ a genius, but he's too busy being kissed to care about making words happen.

* * *

One week later, Dean has pretty much forgiven the universe for the siren curse. In fact Dean has discovered he's the luckiest bastard on the planet – and he has stubble burn on the inside of his thigh and teeth marks between his collar bones and finger-shaped bruises on his hips to prove it. Not to mention the hot, bright ball of giddy Sam-shaped happiness in his heart and no holes, no ache whatsoever.

Dean backs out of the third witness' driveway and doesn't miss Sam's hungry eyes on him from the shotgun seat. He does miss Sam's proprietary hand on the small of his back, thanks to the witness who seemed inordinately interested in Dean's mouth.

Sam's hand is on Dean's thigh, though, so Dean's not complaining. Sam apparently can't keep his hands off Dean now that he knows he's allowed to touch (maul, more like, the gorgeous, possessive _lunatic_ ), and Dean has discovered he loves getting shoved against walls and spun onto his hands and knees and generally frantically manhandled by Sam like he's the personal fucktoy of his kinky little brother. Not that Dean's complaining, because he totally is the personal fucktoy of his kinky little brother. Dean's cock is happy too, already twitching despite the sex marathon this morning.

"Take off your tie and unbutton that stupid collar," Sam growls.

Kinky – Dean called it, he thinks smugly, fingers flying to his tie. "We're on our way to another witness, Sammy."

"I want to look at your neck."

Dean's fingers scramble to undo his tie and fumble open his top buttons. Sam spreads the shirt open, his gaze searing the bare skin of Dean's neck and clavicle. Dean can't breathe.

"Pull over." Sam's teeth are bared, his nostrils flaring, his fingers creeping up Dean's inseam to graze Dean's sac and glide torturously up his hardness. He turns Dean's chin towards him and leans in for a messy kiss before the car has completely stopped on the hard shoulder.

"Motel," Sam hisses, mouthing Dean's lips, jaw, earlobe.

"T-the witness-"

"You have to change those pants anyway." Sam makes his point by molding the damp front of Dean's pants and boxers to his fully erect cock. Dean can feel his precome trickling thickly out, soaking the fabric. "Five minutes. That's all I need. Five minutes, Dean."

Sam drags Dean's hand to the huge fully erect cock tenting Sam's pants and Dean whimpers into the sloppy kiss, before Sam relinquishes his mouth and sits back, eyes lit up like a madman possessed.

"Drive," Sam snarls, his hand splayed heavy and possessive on Dean's thigh, right where it belongs.

Dean backs out of the hard shoulder while Sam presses feverish, stolen kisses to Dean's neck and collar bone and behind Dean's earlobe and whispers filthy, sweet promises in Dean's ear.

Oh yeah. Dean is the fucking _luckiest_ bastard on Earth.


End file.
